


We're All Good At Something

by a_xmasmurder



Series: Marvel Bites [15]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Ficlet, Gen, Memories, Pool, quiet time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-04-24 00:00:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4897294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_xmasmurder/pseuds/a_xmasmurder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Just a little thing inspired by <a>Teach Me Tonight</a> by <a>wintergrey.</a></p>
<p>Hope you like it!</p>
<p>(also written entirely on my new phone ;) )</p>
    </blockquote>





	We're All Good At Something

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wintergrey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintergrey/gifts).



> Just a little thing inspired by Teach Me Tonight by wintergrey.
> 
> Hope you like it!
> 
> (also written entirely on my new phone ;) )

Tony’s recreation room is quiet and dark. This suits Steve just fine. He doesn't bother turning on the lights for the room, relying on the ambient light from the windows as he moves through. He stops at the fridge and grabs a High Life before flipping on the hanging lights above the pool table. The amber glow washes over the green felt and glints off the lone white ball resting there. With a twist of his wrist the bottle cap flies off into the shadows. He takes a drink and pulls a face, staring at the bottle like it offends him. It sort of does, in a way. It's not as horrible as the cheapest crap at the dives he and Bucky used to frequent in their glory days before the war but it comes in a close second. It is cold and goes down like sweet water so he can't complain too much. He finishes the beer and goes back over for another. Remembering how Tony worked his personal table the day they all realized Tony Stark might be crazy, he hip checks the corner on his way to the head and the balls fall into the bay obediently. He smirks. Just like the old days. 

He pulls the triangle out and gathers the balls together. With a sigh, he racks. He does it slowly, relishing the sound like an old friend. He didn’t notice the tightness in his shoulders until it starts disappearing with each clink of the balls sliding into place. The cues stand on the holder in the corner, shiny and waiting for a lone player to pick one up. He picks the perfect one. It feels right in his hands, feels good like the sound of the balls does. No one's around so he twirls the cue at his side, getting a feel for the weight. A quick shake of the triangle sets the balls. He takes the triangle and stashes it in its pocket, A wicked smirk lights his eyes when he sees the balls on the other end as he chalks the end of the stick. 

He had racked them like old Bill likes them. 

He snags the cue ball and takes it to the head of the table. The moment it hits the felt, he's back in his and Bucky’s bar, not too far from the docks. He can see smoke curling around the strip light above the table, can hear the raucous laughter of too many beers and not enough bread to soak it up. A fight is breaking out over cards but he doesn't pay it any mind. The white ball is caged in his fingers and someone is shouting about bets. Bill always stacks the odds for himself when he plays Steve. Not that it helps much. Tiny Steve always has luck on his side when pool is involved. Steve stretches his arms out, gets down into a hunker. When he looks down, his arms are tiny again, not much to ‘em but skin and bone. But it's not the arms that matter on the break. It's the shoulders. 

He moves to one side, angling for a good break. The felt is a map in front of his cue tip, and he can see his first three shots laid out on it in clean lines. The moment in time passes, and he breaks. The three and seven roll right where he wants them to go, corner and side pocket, and he grins. Easy as momma's pie. He can hear old Bill and a couple drunks hooting and whistling at him. 

"Look at that kid. Gonna run that table, I can see it now!"

"Naw, that was a lucky break. He's gonna choke. This table will run him!"

All talk, that's what these guys are. Steve grins into the table. He can see the next shots on the map, and he can feel Bucky at his hip. He sighs. Pool's always been something Steve's got a foot ahead of his best friend, and Bucky always let him know it. Usually by smack-talking the competition, like he’s doing right now. Steve’s belly is warm with beer and happiness.

The next few shots go smooth as butter and Steve is tempted to knock the stripes in before going for the eight. He's not so far in his head that he doesn't remember that he is alone in Tony's rec room. But in his mind's eye Bill's on his fifth beer and Bucky's hand is on his shoulder. 

"Playin' bank eight?"

"Yeah I'm bankin' the eight ya goof," Steve whispers over the laughter and smoke. "And it's gonna be a trick shot." It's going to be, too. Anyone else would be blocked in, trapped in a sea of stripes and green. But Steve can see the shot and he's got a sawbuck coming to him from Mickey down the planks if he can do this. He squints. Enough English on the cue ball and he can slide it up the rail and pocket the eight in the high corner. Not too hard of a shot. But he's feeling good about the game. He's got a full lead on Bill. He can make this shot a little more exciting. He reads the map, plans his attack. With Bucky breathing down his neck and the smell of cheap beer and shit cigars in his nose, he nods and taps the corner next to his hip. "Three bank, eight in the back corner."

The men in his memories go off like rockets. 

"The boy's gone and lost his fool mind!"

"He'll make it." Bucky’s voice slides up his spine.

Steve takes a moment to breathe, to drain his beer, and takes the shot. The English carries the cue up the bank, hits the eight with a crack. It spins off to the second bank while the cue ball sits and spins in place. The eight loses some speed and rolls perilously slow towards the third bank. It looks like its going to miss, and Steve holds his breath. The whole place seems to hold its breath with him. At the last possible second, its spin curls towards the edge and barely touches the green, angling it into the corner pocket pretty as you please. 

Steve lets out a whoop in the silent rec room and pumps the cue in the air. "Yeah!"

The bar, Bill, and Bucky fade into nothing, and he's left with clean air and the echoes of his shout. Instead of feeling sad, though, he's relaxed as he walks over to the stand and puts his cue away. He flicks the strip light off and tosses the bottles of beer into the recycle bin. With one last glance at the table, striped balls still on the green, he walks out the door.


End file.
